


Invite First

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Backstory, First Time, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-18
Updated: 2007-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a first time for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invite First

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to the lovely [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) and [](http://catmoran.livejournal.com/profile)[**catmoran**](http://catmoran.livejournal.com/) for the beta reading help. This story is a belated birthday gift for [](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/profile)[**krisdia**](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/). Um...it's not exactly what I promised you, but I hope you like it!

A string of Air Force bases maps the formative years of John's life. The summer he turns sixteen it's Minot, North Dakota, glowering tarmac and the sky a hard agate sparkle, the worst heat wave in fifty years, so everybody keeps saying. Listlessness paints the town. The regulars sag in their chairs at Birdie's Luncheonette, ice melting disconsolately in their watery Mountain Dews. Sheer will power alone keeps the gossip mill running, although no one can work up quite as much enthusiasm as usual, not even about John's tenth grade math teacher, Wanda Jo Mason, who ran off and left her husband and two kids for a traveling Bible salesman.

Maybe it's the heat that softens the Colonel's usually implacable resolve, because he relaxes his strict "you'll get a car when you can pay for it yourself, son" policy and brings home a faded orange Datsun for John, held together by rust and dumb luck, clearly scavenged off the reject pile at the local salvage yard. John tools around the back roads in it, and sometimes he thinks he can see the shimmering pavement through chinks in the worn floorboard. It's the happiest he's been in his life.

Out on Route 83, the lonely stretch of it north of the base, is Sparks Bike Shop. John spends many long, overheated afternoons there, a refugee in the cold chug of the air-conditioning, practically drooling over the Harley FXR Lowrider. Sometimes if he's feeling especially forward, he'll touch the fine-grained leather seat, a quick, hopeful fumble of his fingers. When he can afford his own transportation, it's going to have two wheels instead of four. He can't wait to see the Colonel's face when he tears out of the driveway on all that gleaming chrome.

Dwight Sparks, the owner, casually lounges behind the counter, talking carburetors with the mechanics when they're on break, going through an elaborate handshake ritual with the leather-clad bikers who come in for spare parts or to get their Harleys tuned up. They're Hell's Angels, John is pretty sure, and he darts quick, envious glances out of the corner of his eye. Someday, he tells himself. He'll be free like that.

For now, he has to content himself with listening in on their stories, and when the shop isn't busy, peppering Dwight with questions, which he always answers with a good-natured chuckle and, "Boy, you remind me of me when I was your age. Can't wait to get all growed up and the hell somewhere else."

Hard to believe now that their first run-in scared John pretty much shitless. He was at his usual spot, by the Lowrider, doing his usual thing, staring at it with sticky eyes. Dwight came up beside him and loomed, his tone about as welcoming as gravel, "You gonna buy that bike, boy? Or you just gonna go home and think about it while you jerk off?"

The other customers let out big, raucous snorts of laughter, and John's face turned hotter than the swelter outside, and even though, logically, he knew all guys beat off, it still felt like some terrible secret had been exposed.

Before he could mumble a nervous "sorry" and scramble for the door, Dwight cracked a grin and slapped him on the back, hard enough that he nearly lost his balance. "Don't have a stroke, kid. I'm just having some fun with you. Got good taste in bikes. This here is a thing of beauty."

Today at closing time, Dwight is bent over his account book, tallying up the sales for the day, and he says, "Hey, kid, can you stick around after I lock up? I got something I want to show you."

John darts a nervous glance at the clock on the wall. The Colonel runs his household just as shipshape as a military operation, and being late for dinner is a serious infraction. John can't imagine trying to explain that to Dwight. So he plays it cool, shrugs like nothing in the world matters. "Sure. Whatever."

Dwight finishes up the books, turns the sign in the window to "closed," and jerks his head toward the rear of the store. "It's out back. What I got to show you."

They file past the storeroom and through the cramped little office and out the back door. John looks around, although there isn't much to see. The pavement is a cracked mess, renegade clumps of grass pushing up through the asphalt. Bikes brought in for repair are parked in a neat line, each one covered by a tarp.

"What did you—" The rest of the sentence gets knocked out of him as Dwight throws him up against the side of the building.

Dwight hems him in, feet planted, one hand pressing John's shoulder into the brick, the other grabbing him by the jaw. John's heart pounds so hard it makes him feel sick to his stomach, and he's desperate to ask, _What did I do wrong?_

"You're one hell of a pretty boy. Anybody ever tell you that?"

Dwight's grip on his face softens, his thumb moving in circles over John's cheek, and John is even more confused by that.

"You ever had your cock sucked?" John stares helplessly, and Dwight's mouth turns up at the corner. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Well, boy, things are about to change."

Dwight settles on his knees in the dust, and John's pulse ratchets up even more, like a runaway machine, throbbing in his ears. The sun-baked brick scalds his back, the thin cotton of his T-shirt as good as no protection at all. The glide of his zipper sounds enormous in the evening stillness, and John thinks the air feels hot against his cock until Dwight puts his mouth there and shows him what that word really means.

John's ribs suddenly become two sizes too small, like they've fused together, his own bones half-suffocating him. It's the surprise of it, but not just that. No one has ever looked at his body, much less touched it, and the pleasure shivering through him now seems so much more precarious than when it's his own hand lighting him up.

He digs his fingers into the loose mortar, getting grit beneath his nails. He's almost afraid to look, but then he can't help himself. There's a bare spot at the crown of Dwight's head that he's never noticed before. Sweat beads on Dwight's forehead and darkens his collar. The muscles of his forearms bunch and flex as he holds John's hips still, as he palms John's balls, his fingers dark-stained with grease. His lips open wide and round, and they slide easily, steadily, up and down. Just like that, some tripwire is crossed, and John goes off without warning.

There's a hot prickle behind his eyes when he's finished coming. Dwight pats his cock and tucks it back into his jeans. John gulps down air, and the idea that he just had sex for the first time makes his skin feel weirdly alive, like there's current running all over him. He's glad it happened and kind of glad it's over.

But then, it isn't, because Dwight unzips and takes John's hand, and his cock is hot and hard and slippery beneath John's fingers. "Like this, boy." Dwight guides him, and John can't breathe all over again, not sure if this is something he's doing or something that's being done to him.

Then he moves his wrist a particular way, and Dwight seizes up and sucks his breath in through his teeth. John freezes and "sorry, sorry" bubbles up in him. Dwight moans, his voice cracking, "God, boy. Do that again. Come on. _Please_."

John twists his hand experimentally, and Dwight lunges with his hips, and uneasiness transmutes into something much harder and brighter. John's newfound sense of power gathers steam when he rubs his thumb underneath the head of Dwight's cock, and Dwight has to bite his lip to choke off a whimper as he comes. It's almost as good as getting himself off, John is surprised to find.

The afterwards is strangely anti-climactic. Dwight pulls a wad of paper towels off the roll he keeps in the office and hands it over, and when John has cleaned up, Dwight says, "Well, kid, you better get on home. We don't want your mama worrying."

John doesn't mention that his mother has been dead for seven years.

That night he can't sleep, but the more he thinks about what happened the more it slides away from him. The next day, he's still not sure how he feels, right up until the moment he pulls into the parking lot at the bike shop. His stomach does this hopeful little flipflop, and he realizes. He hasn't come to look at bikes.

There's a good half dozen Hell's Angels in the store, hanging out up front, shooting the breeze with Dwight. John drifts over to the Lowrider to wait them out. It's as if his eyes won't focus, though, and his hands have gone clammy, clenching and unclenching. Eventually, the group drifts off, and John's heart is all he can hear as he walks the few steps over to Dwight.

"Hey," he says softly, rubbing his hand over the old worn wood of the counter.

"Yeah?" Dwight's voice is like a stone wall. "What is it, kid? I ain't got all day."

John blinks and stares and then blinks some more. "Um. I thought we—"

"Hey, Dwight honey, what does this say here?" A woman's voice calls out from the back. John turns, and there's a blonde in cut-offs and a tight white T-shirt headed over to Dwight. "Is that a 7 or a 4?" She holds out a sheet of paper. "I never could read your writing. I know you're not going to thank me any if I order too many cases of air filters."

Dwight smiles indulgently. "That's a 4, sweet pea."

She whacks him affectionately on the arm with the paperwork. "See? It's a good thing I asked. Well, let me get on back to these orders." She tilts her head, and Dwight leans down. John's eyes play a funny trick on him, so he doesn't so much _see_ the kiss as he just knows it's happening.

The woman heads back to the office, and John's stomach seems to be trying to climb up his spine and out his mouth. He grabs for the door handle, and bolts outside, and for just a second, the hot, thick air feels like it's trying to push him back inside.

Maybe it's a sign or just a freaky coincidence, but the Datsun gives up the ghost the next day. John can't even get it started that morning, and the Colonel bitches him out for blocking his jeep in the driveway. Finally, John manages to push the car onto the lawn, so his father can get to work. The question of whether he should ever go back to Sparks Bike Shop has apparently been decided for him.

He sulks around the house for a few days, trying not to think about Dwight. Eventually boredom sets in. He may be hurt, but he's also sixteen. It's five miles from their house to Ruthville, the little town on the outskirts of Minot, walkable if the heat doesn't kill him. Luckily, he hasn't gone far when one of their neighbors pulls up and offers him a ride.

He wanders around, going in and out of stores, not much else to do, and ends up at Birdie's for a slice of apple pie. When he comes out, there's Dwight astride his Harley, the engine idling.

Dwight jerks his head. "Get on."

John plants his feet, lifts his chin.

"Come on," Dwight coaxes. "Don't be like that." He takes off his helmet and holds it out. John would like to have more willpower than to take it, but that's a feeble ambition compared to how much he wants to press himself against Dwight's back.

They ride a good, long ways out into the country and turn off when they come to a spare cinderblock building. "I keep it as a workshop," Dwight absently explains. "For when I need to get away from shit." He puts a hand on John's back and walks him to the door.

Inside, Dwight doesn't waste any time. He yanks John's T-shirt up over his head and says, "Sorry about the other day. You just got to pay better attention, kid. My wife, she—next time, look for an invite first. I promise you'll know when you see it."

Dwight gets them both naked, and John has no idea what he's allowed to do, so he just stares. Dwight is barrel-chested, and his thighs are thick with muscle. He's already hard, a fact which makes John suddenly shy.

Dwight leads him over to a cot in the corner, really too narrow for two, so they have to plaster against each other. Dwight smells like sweat and motor oil, and he strokes his hand over John's hip. "You just got to play it cool, you know?"

John shivers at the touch and presses against Dwight. He doesn't know what "cool" could possibly mean in these circumstances.

"It's just for kicks anyway, two guys getting each other off." He rubs his thumb up and down the crease of John's ass. "It doesn't mean anything."

John's eyes flutter closed, and he lets Dwight do whatever he wants, and for him at least, it means everything.

* * *

The military teaches John many important skills: watching, waiting, diversionary tactics. A mile down the road from the base is the Lucky Flamingo, a magnet for local girls looking to meet airmen. On any given night, there are more than a few of these optimistic barflies giving John the eye, pursing their cotton candy lips in his direction. _Shep pulls so much pussy he's going to plumb fuck his dick off one of these days,_ the other guys in his squadron like to tease him.

"Beauty school. Now that sounds interesting," he tells Lorraine, the brunette he's been flirting with since he got there.

She turns a pleased shade of pink and leans closer. He takes a sip of his beer and nods along as she tells him all about her ambitions, to get her hairdresser's license and buy a bus ticket and land a job at one of those fancy salons up in New York City. He's heard this same dream before, many times, just with different details. His attention drifts away, sifts through the other patrons, some factory guys relaxing after work, the old drunks who hang out at the far end of the bar, diligently tending their shots of cheap whiskey, a lone man in an Air Force uniform, sitting at a table by himself.

That's where John's attention catches. He keeps watch out of the side of his eye, and the man makes a habit of looking over and then looking away. John doesn't think it's the girl he's checking out, but to test the theory, he sweeps his hand out and his wallet goes flying. He smiles ruefully at Lorraine. "I promise I'm a lot more coordinated when I'm flying choppers."

She grins, and John slides off the stool, no hurry as he bends down to retrieve his wallet. He straightens up, and the military guy meets his gaze, and nope, it's definitely not the girl he's been staring at. The invitation is impossible to mistake.

"Save my seat," he tells Lorraine.

In the restroom, John stands at the mirror and runs the tap to have something to do. He doesn't have to wait long. The bathroom is L-shaped, and there's a lone stall around the corner that tends to be forgotten. John is the frequent star of it. He snicks the lock into place behind them, pushes his pants down to his ankles and braces against the wall. There's the soft crinkle of a condom wrapper, followed by the bite of metal uniform buttons against his back, and then the burn of penetration that makes the fine muscles of his hands clench and flex against the tile.

It's a quick, wordless fuck. Afterwards, the guy zips his pants and leaves, and John cleans up. Lorraine's shoulders drop with relief when he comes back, when he hasn't ditched her, although there's a residual wariness in her eyes that doesn't fade all at once.

John lightly brushes her hair away from her cheek as he slides back onto the stool. "Hey." He says it like it's a secret just between them.

Her eyelids flutter, and doubt gives way to pleased surprise, her mouth curving into a big, soft smile. "Hey."

John orders another round, and focuses all his attention when he asks, "New York, huh? So, what's the first thing you're going to do when you get there?"

Later, when it's time to leave, he doesn't go alone.

* * *

Atlantis' spires have a way of shining just so in the late morning sun, a prismatic effect caused by the alien metal that makes John think: _This._ This is the real Emerald City. At least it's the opinion he comes to eventually. The first few weeks are too hectic to notice much of anything—dodging mass drowning and rousing the undead-like scourge of the galaxy and taking command of a mission the other military personnel never particularly wanted him on to begin with. It's three days before he finds the little drawer-like thingy in the wall of his room that turns out to be the Ancient version of dry cleaning. He'd been washing his clothes in the sink or just going dirty.

A respite from running for his life at last, probably brief, and his reward, if you call it that, is the mountain of administrative work waiting on his desk. He sits in his office and puzzles over duty rosters and rubberstamps the policy Sumner worked up for conserving their precious stores of ammunition. He figures the Colonel was a far better judge of these things than he'll ever be.

He's just focused enough that he starts when McKay's voice blares over his earpiece, "Major, can you come to the lab? We need you to get touchy-feely with a piece of Ancient equipment down here."

John sighs, extra loudly. "I'm kind of _busy_ now."

"See you in five. McKay out."

John rolls his eyes and dots a few more "i"s just to push McKay's buttons. He keeps a running list of impressions of expedition members. His inventory on McKay includes "noisy," "demanding," and "surprisingly useful when the shit hits the fan." John revises it now to add "fun to torment."

He finds McKay standing in the doorway of the lab, hands on his hips. "Where have you been?" He grabs the sleeve of John's jacket. "Never mind. Just get in here."

He points out the artifact, and John lays on hands, and that never stops being funny. At least, it hasn't yet. The object is roughly the same size and shape as a waffle iron. It makes a whirring noise and lights up day-glo green, but then stutters, and the whirring downgrades to more of a dying cow sound. The thing flickers at last and goes dead.

McKay purses his lips. "Broken. I thought so."

He shoos John away and starts to tinker. His hands move quickly, his touch blunt but knowing, and John is blindsided by sudden mental pictures. A deserted supply room and his underwear down around his knees and _those hands_. Contrary to whatever John might say, he's an expert at seeing it coming, if it's the right something, but this— _this_ he somehow managed to miss. McKay glances up, and his gaze is incisive, as blue as the scorching part of a flame, like it can burn through metal, through walls, through _John_.

John swallows hard, even though it's certainly not the first time he's seen this look. McKay pinned him down with that same gaze when he sat in the chair in Antarctica, and it's his standard reaction to the prospect of a ZPM, and John's pretty sure he's seen Rodney level this same laser-hot focus on a pudding cup, one of the butterscotch ones, at least. It doesn't mean anything, John knows.

McKay frowns at him. "Don't tell me this thing blew out some of your synapses. Because I'm one unfortunate accident away from Elizabeth revoking my Ancient technology privileges."

"I'm fine—" John glares. "Hey, thanks!"

"No need to get testy, Major. Concern for my intellectual autonomy is ultimately a concern for your safety and everyone else's," he says distractedly, the bright spark of his interest already focused elsewhere.

John thinks he has McKay figured out, more or less anyway, until he shows up at John's room one evening, twitchy and practically glowing with excitement. "There's something I want to show you. If you're not busy. I mean, only if you want to. It's not exactly work-related." He fidgets. "There's this _room_."

John has already scrambled up from his chair before it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn't be quite so obvious. "Um. Okay. I guess I've got some time to kill."

They turn down one corridor after another, and eventually John thinks to ask, "Shouldn't we have brought...stuff?"

"Everything we need is there," McKay assures him, and John begins to wonder exactly what kind of room they're talking about.

A few minutes later he sees for himself, and it becomes clear that trying to anticipate McKay is like riding a roller coaster. There's a reason why John has always preferred Ferris wheels. The room is hardly a revelation, dusty consoles lining the space, like pretty much every other room they've found in Atlantis.

McKay senses the let down and starts to babble, "No, no, really, it's cool. You'll like it. Just—let me show you."

The controls spring to life at his touch, and a planet appears on the view screen. Despite himself, John leans in for a closer look. "That's not Atlantis."

McKay shakes his head. "It's not real. Watch. If I do this—" He punches in a command.

John blinks. "You just made yourself their God or something."

McKay breaks into a big, self-satisfied smile. "Yes, I did."

"So," John says slowly, "what you're telling me is—you've found the Ancient equivalent of a video game?"

McKay grins like a kid on Christmas morning, at least if kids looked smug and self-congratulatory among the tinsel and torn wrapping paper, and John almost laughs out loud. _Of course_ , this is what McKay had to show him. If he'd wanted sex, he would have just barged into John's room and demanded he take his pants off.

"Okay, so how do we play?" John asks, an incredibly good sport if you ask him.

"Over there." McKay points him to the facing console. "There's another group on this planet. You can take charge of them, and we'll see who makes the better benevolent dictator."

One corner of his mouth tilts upward, as if the outcome is naturally a foregone conclusion, and John scrambles over to the controls, forgetting all about disappointed expectations. "Bring it on, McKay."

They play for hours, and afterwards, argue all the way back to their quarters about ground rules, and what level of technology is allowable, and whose fashion sense really is worse.

McKay pauses outside his door. "So, um, do you think you might want to do this again sometime?'

It's clumsy and halting, and John finally, finally gets it, the mixed signals that aren't actually signals at all. Because, God, Rodney just wants John to _like_ him. It's oddly touching to know that McKay wants so little and so much from him.

He smiles. "Sure, buddy. How's Wednesday for you?"

* * *

Three years in, and missions are no more predictable now than they were day one. They step out onto PCX-M12, birds twittering in the tops of trees, sunlight pooling dark lemon on the leafy green branches, and John has an unexpected rush of nostalgia for boyhood summers spent with his mother in the mountains of North Carolina. The land looked just like this, the sky the same friendly shade of cornflower.

Rodney takes out his scanner. Readings indicate a settlement in the distance, and they haven't gone far when they're met by a band of men, dressed head to toe in leather and chain mail, swords in hand, shields embossed with skulls, like an army sprung to life from a fantasy novel. John's finger flexes on the trigger of his P-90, just in case, but no one makes a move for a weapon. In fact, they're strangely silent and formal, their eyes downcast. John finally realizes that it's Teyla they're careful not to look at. A spokesman among them manages to impart—the corner of his mouth barely moving as he speaks—that their holy city lies ahead and only warriors may enter its gates. Apparently, by "warrior" they mean _men_.

Teyla looks uncertainly to John, who shrugs in a helpless "I don't know what else to do" kind of way. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin and turns with piercing dignity to walk back to the gate. Ronon quietly smirks, because the next time John spars with Teyla no doubt she'll teach him a few new definitions of "asskicking."

Once she disappears around a curve in the path, it's as if someone has flipped a switch. The army guys' reserve melts away, and there are introductions, punctuated by boasts of battlefield glory and good-natured bickering among the men about who is braver and mightier and more cunning, with much jovial backslapping all around.

"My friends, my friends, we must give our guests the chance to speak of their own adventures," the same spokesman from before proclaims, his voice loud enough now to tremble the leaves.

"Well." John scratches his elbow and considers. "We have beaten the Wraith a few times." Then reconsiders. "Or, at least, it was a draw. Sort of. Hey, we didn't get eaten. I call that a victory."

Apparently, so do the army guys. Murmurs of admiration ripple through them, and there are calls for, "A celebration! A celebration!" John, Ronon and Rodney get swept along in their enthusiasm, through the gates of the city, into an enormous banquet hall that could just as easily have belonged to Beowulf. Tankards are passed around, something that tastes like chocolate milk only without the milky consistency. There's no way to refuse it without offending their hosts. A few sips in, John realizes the stuff packs the wallop of a Long Island iced tea. He pushes away his cup, but the room is already slipping sideways.

Across the table, Ronon is trading actual _jokes_ with two of the natives, throwing his head back, slapping his thigh, great snorting laughs rattling in his chest. Rodney sits a few places down from Ronon, his cheeks such a sharp pink it's looks as if someone has been pinching them, his eyes bright and little unfocused. John can't imagine what he's found in common with the grizzled warrior sitting next to him, but they're babbling away at each other. John smiles, and wishes Teyla could be there, and knows he's really far gone when his thoughts take a sudden maudlin turn, "Why can't it always be like this?"

Nothing _happens_ , not that John notices anyway, just one moment everyone is all buddy-buddy and the next, the grizzled guy has Rodney by the scruff of the neck. There's shouting and some rather inventive swearing, and a gang of army guys tackles Ronon. John puts up as much fight as he can manage, but he lost hold of his gun in the haze of chocolaty inebriation. As they drag him away, he keeps insisting in a slurred mess of disjointed phrases that they never would have taken him if the room weren't spinning and making him dizzy.

He wakes up on cold dirt, a desert taste in his mouth, familiar from too many hangovers in his younger days in the Air Force. He manages to push himself up into a sitting position and looks around, no Rodney, no Ronon. In fact, it's utterly silent, as if everyone has forgotten about him.

An urn with water sits in one corner and a bucket for a latrine in the other. He crawls over to the water, ignores the grimy, half rusted prison-issue tin cup, and gulps down handful after handful. Afterwards, he feels slightly more human, and lurches to his feet, staggers over to the cell door.

"Hey, guys! Come on. Let me out of here, and we can work things out, okay?" He bangs the cup against the bars. "Was it something I said?" He leans his forehead against the cool metal. "Was it something _Rodney_ said?"

No answer, no hint that anyone is even listening, and John falls into a rhythmic protest, a syncopated clatter-a-clat-clat, the beat not entirely regular. He never was musical.

Raising holy hell is oddly tedious business, and the noise makes his head feel like it's about to explode. "Where's my team? I want to see my damned team!"

He's not sure how long this goes on—an offhand guess would be forever—but finally, he hears boots thudding hollowly on the stone floor, coming his direction. He breathes out. _Finally._

The spokesman, who John fuzzily puts together must be their leader, appears on the other side of the bars.

John tries a conciliatory smile. "So...problem?"

The guy has no interest in détente or weak attempts at humor apparently. "You were told only warriors are allowed inside the city. The sharp-tongued one is no warrior. You have defiled our holy place with his presence."

"Look, Rodney may be a civilian, technically, but he's seen his fair share of combat," John insists. "I trust him with my life."

The leader crosses his arms over his chest. "He is a virgin. Never properly initiated. He admitted as much to one of my men."

John blinks, bursts into laughter. " _That's_ what this is about? Your guy must have misunderstood. I mean, don't get me wrong. McKay's not all that smooth with the ladies, but he's certainly—"

"Females have nothing to do with this," the leader says, as if the mere suggestion offends him.

"Um—" John just stares. A military where you're _required_ to have sex with other men has never entered his imagination, not even the fantasizing arenas of it.

The army guy's lip curls up in a sneer. "A true leader makes certain his men are properly initiated. Now _my_ men must take on the responsibility that should have been yours."

He turns to go, and John's heart leaps up into his throat, pounding so sickeningly it takes a second before he can yell out, "No! We'll leave, and we won't come back. You have my word on that. It'll be like we were never even here."

"Worse than a man entering the holy city when he is not a warrior is leaving it so," the leader informs him coldly.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it!" John blurts out in desperation.

The leader raises an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced of John's fitness for such a duty if he has neglected it this far.

John opens his mouth, and thankfully, lies just come tumbling out, "You see, among our people, we—wait for—a sign." He snaps his fingers. "That's it. I mean, _this_ , this is it. The sign. That we were waiting for." He breathes out. "I can—um, do that initiation thing with Rodney now. Just as soon as we get home." He nods, his most earnest, trustworthy nod. "I'll get that marked right off the old to-do list."

"He may not leave the city still a virgin," the leader maintains, with all the tractability of a stone. "However," he levels a narrow, scrutinizing gaze at John, "if you truly wish to fulfill your obligations, we will allow it."

"I do!" John nods emphatically. "I really, really do." He tacks on an ingratiating smile for good measure.

They let him out of the cell, and a group of warriors circles around, escorts him away for preparation. Well, drags him really. There's a campfire, and they order him to take off his clothes. As a matter of pride, John refuses to shiver, although the breeze is far less pleasant now that he's naked. They smear his arms and legs with ash, fragrant from some ceremonial something they've burned, and paint symbols on his chest with pointy sticks and red paint. The leader, John swears, gets his kicks out of jabbing John particularly hard, trying to make him jump.

Finally, John knocks away their hands. "Enough. Where's McKay?"

They drag him off to another building, lock him in a room that's a step up from the prison cell, but just barely. It has whitewashed walls, a rough stone floor. Standard issue warrior's accommodations, John is guessing. There's a low pallet, and some incense that's already been lit, and a decorative bowl filled with oil. John paces and waits and paces some more, and Rodney doesn't come, doesn't come, doesn't come.

Doubt that the army guys are going to keep their word collides with the first real crisis of faith John has had since he got to Pegasus. Why are they even _here_? Why are they _doing_ this? Rodney should be holed up in a lab somewhere, making his brilliant discoveries in such pristine safety it's almost nauseating. Not being passed from rapist to rapist, being _hurt_ , by men who don't even understand the crime in what they're doing.

"I demand that you release me this instant!" McKay's voice rings out at last, not far away and getting closer. "I'm sorry if we broke your precious warrior code or whatever, but I can assure you it was completely unintentional. Ow! Watch it. I'll have you know you're manhandling a future Nobel Prize winner, not that this means anything to you, but trust me, it's very important."

Rodney's voice is sharp, displeased, but not nearly outraged enough that—John feels almost sick with relief. Metal clanks on metal, the key turning in the lock. The door creaks open, and Rodney is shoved inside, naked like John, also smeared and painted, the symbols yellow instead of red. There's a blindfold tied around his eyes, and he stumbles. John reaches out to catch him, and Rodney flinches, starts to flail, hands locking into fists, punching blindly at the air.

"Hey, hey." John curves an arm around his shoulders, trying to be comforting and at the same time get the blindfold off.

Rodney stills at the sound of his voice. "Jesus." He bends over at the waist, a loud, rattling wheeze coming out of him, as if he's on the verge of hyperventilating. "They told me what was going to—but they didn't say it was _you_."

John clumsily pats his back, really wishing he was better at this kind of thing. "It's okay. You're safe now. You're going to be _fine_. "

Rodney nods, like he really wants to believe that.

"They really took their time with the preparations, huh? I've been waiting here an hour at least," John says, doing his best to make it sound like a simple observation.

"There was a lot of dancing—I use that term lightly—and chanting, something about my propitious entry into warriorhood, using the word 'virgin' more times than I appreciated." Rodney meets John's eye. "But nobody _did_ anything to me. So you don't have to burn down the place when we finally get out of here, although I do appreciate the sentiment."

"Did you really have to mention you'd never had sex with a guy?" John can't help asking.

"I was drunk! And—well, he _asked_." Rodney shrugs, as if there is no such concept as lying, and then his expression takes a more serious turn. "You're probably thinking we can just fake this ridiculous initiation, because, hey, that's what I was thinking too, but on second consideration, they take this 'you defiled our sacred city' thing pretty seriously. And I'm not entirely convinced they won't be watching us. If they find out you haven't, they—" He shivers and finishes in a small voice, "I'd rather it was you, if it's all the same."

"Yeah, yeah, me too." John's throat threatens to close up on the words, as if it's too much of an admission. "Why don't we—" He nods his head toward the pallet and puts his hand lightly on Rodney's shoulder, a gesture he hopes translates, _I'm not going to do anything you don't want, so just relax._

They lie down side by side, and now that the adrenaline haze of fear has lifted, John _feels_ their nakedness, the buzz of awareness singing along his skin. Rodney stays unnaturally still, muscles tensed, waiting. John stares up at the ceiling. "Ronon okay?" he asks, as matter-of-factly as possible.

Rodney takes a big breath, and John feels some of the tension go out of him. "If by okay, you mean pissed as hell, then, yes, Ronon is fine. They have him tied up in the banquet hall. Said they'd let him go just as soon as—well, you know." There's a pause, and then out of the blue, "Amy Marston."

John frowns. "What?"

"My actual first time. I was sixteen, second year in college, tutoring to make some extra money. Amy Marston was this blonde sorority girl, not having much luck filling her science requirement. I got her through Physics for Dummies, and she thanked me the, ah, old-fashioned way. Not the worst way to lose your virginity."

Sense memory flashes through John, scalding heat and the thick, pleasant stink of motor oil, and callused fingers pressing into his hipbones. He closes his eyes, just for a second, then pushes up onto his elbow, rests a hand lightly on Rodney's belly, which dips at his touch. "We should get this taken care of. Here's how it's going to go. I'm going to suck you, and then you can fuck me."

Rodney blinks owlishly. "I thought you'd—"

"There's more than one way to have sex with a man." John lets himself trace the soft fur of Rodney's belly, and want fishhooks him in the gut, not that this is about that. "I've, uh, done this a couple of times. It's—fine."

He kneels between Rodney's legs. _Just play it cool_. Rodney sucks in his breath before John even touches him, not playing it cool at all, and John can't remember when Rodney's utter incapacity for pretense became so endearing. He braces his hands and bends his head, and Rodney's cock tastes like cock usually does, of warmth and bitter salt. It doesn't take long to get hard against his tongue, and John falls easily into giving head, as if it hasn't been years. Like riding a bike, he supposes.

Rodney makes choked off little whimpers, too damned hot, and John closes his eyes tight. Doesn't mean anything. Just teammates taking care of each other. The surest, safest way out of a dicey situation. The fact that Rodney got his wish, that John likes him a hell of a lot more than he ever would have predicted, has no place in any of this.

"Hey." Rodney tugs at his shoulders. "Hey. Come up here." John lets out his breath and moves up next to Rodney, only realizing how tense he is when Rodney awkwardly pats his arm. "It's all right. You don't have to."

 _I want to._ Only John knows better than to say it.

Rodney's eyes fasten on him anyway, wide and startled, and then they get glittery in that familiar way that usually goes along with a big breakthrough. "It hasn't been just a few times, has it?"

Instinct rears up in John, outright denial, or the ever popular _I was drunk_ , but it's honesty of all things that comes spilling out, "I like guys, too." And then because he's on a roll, the whole truth, "I like _guys_."

The moment it's out there, every ambition toward honesty instantly dries up, and he's shaky and sick to his stomach with regret. Whoever said confession was good for the soul didn't know _shit_ , he's convinced.

"Okay, you like guys. You don't have to freak out about telling me," Rodney murmurs, sliding his hand into John's hair.

John barely has time to close his eyes before Rodney's mouth is opening beneath his, and then John goes just a little crazy. Because, okay, maybe confession doesn't suck after all. Because he's fucked a lot more guys than he's kissed, and Rodney makes the best little mewling noises at every touch of their lips. John rubs against him frantically, like some switch has finally, _finally_ been flipped inside him.

Rodney runs his hand down John's side, cranes his neck to look. "You're so fucking gorgeous. You know, I've had—I hate the term 'man crush', but for lack of a better phrase—for a while now." He hesitates, and then lightly, experimentally touches John's cock, making John gasp. "So, you see my point. It's not as if I've had some principled _stand_ against sleeping with men. Just no one expressed an interest before."

John blinks at him.

"Oh, for—" Rodney flips him over, palms braced on either side of his shoulders. " _That's_ your idea of expressing an interest?"

"I was watching, waiting for an invitation." John shifts restlessly, feeling defensive again.

Rodney trails fingers lightly over John's face. "Why would you ever think you needed to do that?" He focuses that deep, analytical gaze, and John hooks a hand behind his neck, pushes their lips together, not just to have a reason to close his eyes, but it's certainly a fringe benefit.

"Okay, okay," Rodney murmurs, "tell me later." He starts to kiss down John's body.

John reaches out to touch his hair. "You don't have to."

Rodney smiles against his belly. "Yes, because I'm so self-sacrificing. Not to boast, but I have been told I'm quite good with my mouth. On more than a few occasions, actually."

He sets out to prove it, hot, sloppy trial and error, always the scientist, a running commentary between touches of his tongue, "Such a big cock. I thought you would. It's a good thing I have a big mouth. How about this? I always like that. I tasted my own come once. Curiosity. You taste different, though." It's the first time John ever remembers smiling while a man blows him, a strange counterpoint to feeling like he's going to shake and shake until he comes apart.

Rodney palms his balls, and John sucks in his breath, and his voice cracks, "Rodney."

Rodney looks up, and John jerks his head toward the bowl of oil. Rodney strums his fingers thoughtfully along the inside of John's thigh.

"I like getting fucked." It's weird to hear himself actually say it.

Rodney leans up for a kiss, the kindest smile John has ever seen on him. He slicks his hands and goes back down. John spreads his legs and twists on the sheets as Rodney twists his fingers inside him.

"I'm going to—come on. _Rodney_." He pushes at Rodney's forehead and flops over onto his stomach.

Rodney stretches out over him, breathes against his neck, "Okay, but the next time we do this, I want to see your face when you come."

John is already shivering, just from that, and then Rodney pushes inside him. Penetration is the same thought-obliterating burn as ever, but then Rodney's voice comes soft and breathy against his ear. "God, I can't believe this. Can't believe I get to—you're so amazing, and you feel so good, and I want you so much. _John_." He kisses John's neck, and his hands light from place to place, John's arm and his chest, his hip, back, and finally, finally, his cock, like Rodney is trying to show him something. _I can't get enough_.

When John comes, everything fades to blue like it always does, and he can't make out what Rodney is babbling in the throes of his own passion. He just knows it sounds nice.

It's all good, the _best_ even, until the sweat starts to cool and his brain kicks back into action. Beside him, Rodney drowses lazily, and John's heart sounds like a machine gun in his ears. He never deals with these messy aftermaths, and he can't believe anyone ever puts up with feeling this splayed open. He edges to the far side of the pallet and uses his efficient team leader voice, "We should get our clothes, find Ronon, get out of here—"

Rodney doesn't stir. "This is you panicking, isn't it?"

"No!" John insists. "I just—look, Rodney, this…situation, it doesn't—"

"Shut up," Rodney tells him fondly, and tugs at John's hand, pulls it to his chest, so that John feels the skitter of Rodney's pulse against his knuckles. "Of course, it means something."

The first time John flew an F-15 there was a moment of profound disorientation, when the world spun away and crashing and burning seemed the only logical outcome. Happens to every pilot, and he had to just plow through it, turn off that doubting voice and trust his instincts. It takes no less a leap to settle his head onto Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney presses a kiss to his hair, but doesn't say anything. John takes a breath, tries to settle into the weird feeling of being close to someone.

It gets easier after a while, less like he's under siege, and more like he's...lying in bed after sex.

Rodney threads their fingers together. "You didn't tell me about your first time."

John tucks his head into the hollow of Rodney's neck, and, wow, Rodney smells really _good_. "Maybe I will," he says idly. "Sometime."

The kicker is realizing: hey, maybe he really will.


End file.
